


lay your hands on me.

by seizonsha



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst, Cemetery, Flowers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Lowercase, M/M, Other, Ouma not Oma, Post-Canon, Post-New Dangan Ronpa V3, a little vandalism, but not the ew kind, character death is referenced, hanakotoba, i guess you could interpret some things as mildly suicidal? but it's never major or direct, no beta we die like men, pregame saihara, saihara has some spirally moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22867234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seizonsha/pseuds/seizonsha
Summary: saihara's bedroom walls are decorated with dead people.
Relationships: Harukawa Maki & Saihara Shuichi, Harukawa Maki & Saihara Shuichi & Yumeno Himiko, Harukawa Maki & Yumeno Himiko, If you squint!!, Momota Kaito & Saihara Shuichi, Oma Kokichi & Saihara Shuichi, Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi, Saihara Shuichi & Everyone, Saihara Shuichi & Yumeno Himiko
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	lay your hands on me.

saihara watches, enraptured, as the season finale of danganronpa 52 draws to a close. amami rantarou, expression alight with righteous radiance, takes his last stand against the mastermind, against despair, eyes wide and desperate as he searches the faces of his dead classmates, immortalised in their portraits. he looks like he’s about to cry, - saihara hopes they make a poster from that, he looks good - a pained smile curving his lips.

“there’s,” amami turns to face monokuma, the mastermind in front of him, “no point in having this argument. i sacrifice myself and so do you. they,” he gestures widely to the twins - the elder, her blood pooling on the floor, is being carried in the other’s arms, “can go. let them leave.”

amami’s eyes are filled with tears and love. 

“i don’t care anymore - about you or your despair or whatever sick kind of fantasy you’re living out. i don’t care.”

he spits out a laugh, spiteful and proud.

“i’m _amami rantarou_ , you bitch.”

  
  


THANKS FOR WATCHING NEW DANGANRONPA V2! 

STORY: Y. KOTAROU

CAST (IN ORDER OF FIRST APPEARANCE):

AMAMI RANTAROU

ENOMOTO ERIKA

HIYAMIZU KOUSUKE

KUREBAYASHI SENIKA 

SETO SOICHIRO

KUROSAWA TSUBOMI

saihara tunes the rest of the list out. amami really stole the show this time around. it’s almost impressive. that is,

seeing the nice one, the placid one, calm and collected amami, 

slowly die inside.

he hums the lyrics of the theme song absently, standing up. he should get the dishes done, do that english assignment. see if that kurebayashi senika figure from HIGH JUMP got approved in the end. he’s been trying to collect all the bunny ones, and it’d be a shame if they didn’t make her one just because of the whole lolicon scandal.

the tap runs over his hands, cold and pleasant. his soap smells of cleanliness and fresh strawberries, the smiling expression of last season’s ultimate gardener printed on the label. 

what else can he do? check the forums? but he’ll have to avoid anyone who hasn’t seen it yet, and he can’t be bothered to spoiler tag everything. maybe his emails? 

he opens his phone, homescreen coordinated. naegiri is such a cute ship. emails, emails. 

coupons for things he won’t buy and didn’t sign up for. a confirmation email from HIGH JUMP about that figure he bought. team danganronpa.

ah, wait.

he opens it. sent by TEAM DANGANRONPA ASIA.

subject: contestants 

saihara shuuichi-san, 

thank you for submitting your application to danganronpa 53. after much deliberation, we have decided on our candidates, and are happy to announce that you are one of them! please see attached pdf for all terms and conditions, as well as full cast list. you do not need to respond to this email unless you wish to drop out.

he skips through the conditions. he doesn’t care, he’ll sell his soul if he has to. he needs to see his name in writing, know for sure that it’s him, the same kanji.

harukawa maki, momota kaito - where’s his? further down, there it is. clear as ever in black ink. 

he feels like his heart is singing out of his chest. he’s in danganronpa. he’s in danganronpa. he’s in danganronpa. he can be like that gunner from the 47th or komaeda nagito or enoshima junko herself - he’s one of them, now. his name, immortalised in this document, says so.

alright. who else is here? 

those two from earlier. someone foreign he doesn’t care to try and pronounce the name of. a toujou “kirumi” kumiko. nobody all that interesting. amami rantarou, yumeno hitomi. he tosses his phone onto the couch with a sigh.

wait -

amami rantarou?

he rereads it. and again. it’s the same kanji, alright. but he should be dead, right?

who cares? this is the real amami rantarou. like a celebrity, by now.

maybe he’ll sign saihara’s figure of himself.

-

the failing sun shines pathetically down on saihara’s face. its rays are a muted off-white, but, ghosting across his lips like kind hands, they’re more than enough. he turns to face the remains of a ruined world, pieces of danganronpa crumbling behind them like dominoes. if he squints, he can see the blue-grey tint of kiibo’s chassis among the debris, and, not far behind, akamatsu’s smiling portrait. 

if he looked hard enough, he could probably find what’s left of monokuma or shirogane - but he doesn’t really want to. some things are just better left buried (literally). 

even so, he offers a silent apology. to amami, for not being able to save even him. to akamatsu, for not finding out the truth. to hoshi for letting him down and toujou and angie and chabashira and shinguuji for he’s not really sure but he apologises anyway. to iruma for not seeing the signs. to gokuhara for - everything. to ouma for ruining his plan and to momota for not being the sidekick he deserved and to kiibo for a life without danganronpa. 

what gives him the right, above them, to stand here? he could’ve saved all of them. he knows he could’ve. if he’d just spent more time around amami, paid more attention to akamatsu, shown hoshi that he had them, too -

yumeno tugs on his sleeve gently, wide eyes tearful and bright. harukawa is already a good few metres ahead of them, picking her way through the dirt and rubble with the grace of a ballerina. 

“ah, sorry. let’s,” he smiles down at her, “go home.”

-

when saihara looks in the mirror, it’s like seeing a stranger. all his features are there, a nose and lips and eyes, but they don’t form together right. they’re not person-shaped. bits and pieces of other people. long lashes, feminine features. dull gold eyes. a smile that fits his jaw all wrong.

experimentally, he parts his hair a little differently, fluffs it up and curls it around his finger the way he remembers amami doing sometimes. his eyes don’t have the same kind slant as the dead boy’s, none of the understanding, the quiet warmth, and his hair’s not the same cut or faded green, but even so, it’s something. someone recognisable. if he wore colour contacts, got some clip-on piercings, the resemblance would probably be a lot closer. who else?

he runs his hands over and over through his bangs until they go all static and unpleasant the way he doesn’t like, the way midsummer makes it frizz and curl, until it falls like leaves in the breeze over his face and twists away from his ears and softens at the edges like it’s bleached a little lighter. maybe if his eyes were bigger, his face a little more youthful, a little paperwhite, he’d be the image of ouma. but he doesn’t want to think about ouma not now not ever so who else is there?

again, hands through his hair, parting it to cover one eye in a sweeping wave. he tucks the rest behind his hair, forces a serene smile onto his lips. they obviously don’t look the same - he’s a guy, after all - but they have the same softness in their jaw, the same feminine fullness in their lips, and it’s enough to make him just barely look like toujou. 

saihara thinks, in a way (but not really, he couldn’t ever be like her, couldn’t kill in cold blood no) he understands how shirogane felt, so able to change her appearance at a whim. in a way, it makes him forget who he is.

(he likes it.)

-

the posters must’ve been superglued to the wall. harukawa pries at them, tries dragging her nails and then a box cutter across the tops, but they stay stubbornly put. she folds her arms and shakes her head, long hair swaying behind her as though caught in the wind. there’s a sort of pitying, disgusted expression on her face as she turns to look at saihara, eyeing poster-amami’s solemn expression uncomfortably. maybe it’s because they knew him (did they really?)

“i think you’ll have to paint over them,” she murmurs, hands tangling into her ponytail as she drags it to rest on her shoulder. “what did you use on those? cement?” she offers, the strained humour in her voice welcome.

saihara laughs self-consciously. “i,” (but he doesn’t really think of them as the same person, “guess i must’ve. i've been trying for a while. good thing they’re not framed or anything, otherwise i’d be worse off.”

harukawa hums noncommittally, running slender fingers through her bangs. they look a little long, and it seems like she’s noticed, too. maybe he could -

“can you cut my bangs?” she asks, and, startled, saihara lets out a less-than-dignified squeak. can she read his mind or something? it’s a little scary, if he has to be honest. with her piercing eyes, red as bricks or the dying sun and definitely not blood, burning holes into his own, the thought of her pulling his thoughts from his head so easily feels almost strangely natural. 

laughing off his shock, saihara nods, hands slipping into his pockets the way he remembers amami doing. act natural, act calm. “i can try, but,” he eyes the strands of her falling into her eyes, “i can’t guarantee it’ll be all that good, y’know? i’m not a hairdresser or anything.”

harukawa nods appreciatively, looking around her for the scissors she’d been using to try and pry the posters off the walls. she finds them sitting on a cardboard box filled with figures, packed and ready for the secondhand store in akihabara. 

“just get it to whatever looks reasonable,” she says, picking the scissors up and weighing them thoughtfully in one hand. the assassin (wait, that’s not right) frowns at him, looks him up and down. “oh, and saihara?”

“ah, yeah..?”

“stop acting like amami. it’s weird.”

-

yumeno kicks her legs boredly under the table, feet not quite reaching the concrete sidewalk below. there’s a cup of something french and expensive that neither of them know how to pronounce in front of her, but she seems to be enjoying it, and it’s not like they’re short on money anymore. team danganronpa were betting on this final season selling well, and, judging from how many pins and keychains he’s seen of enoshima junko, of shirogane - hell, of himself - it paid off.

absently, he tugs his beanie down a little further, casting his eyes to the city streets stretching out beside them. tokyo’s nice and all, but he wonders if they should move somewhere quieter. isn’t kyoto supposed to be pretty? might still be a little too busy, though. maybe okinawa, then.

“yumeno-san,” he starts, trying to put something encouraging into the breath of his voice, “do you have any plans? i think i’m just going to take a break.” (it sounds strained.)

the redhead blinks sleepily, lips tinted green from the matcha powder on what, on further inspection, is probably a latte. she gives a vague hum of affirmation, scrunching her nose and resting her chin on her forearms. the cup with her drink wobbles dangerously near the edge of the table. it must be good, judging from how little left there is. saihara’s not hungry or anything right now, but maybe he’ll order it if he comes here again.

(that’s a joke. he won’t. they might recognise him if he becomes a regular.) 

“eh..” she starts off slowly, testing the words on her tongue, “i think i’m gonna go to disneyland.”

saihara pauses, somewhat taken aback. it’s a fair plan, but,

“oh, i meant something more longterm. gotta plan for the future..?”

he tries to sound upbeat, empathetic, but the rising at the end of his sentence turns into a question, and he can practically _feel_ himself melting into his chair in shame. the metal is cold against his back, february air gentle as it brushes his cheeks, touches the nicks and scars that he doesn’t remember, might never remember, getting. a childhood fall? a playground tantrum? he’ll never know. he doesn’t really want to, if he’s being honest.

he’s saihara shuuichi, seventeen years old but barely a child anymore, the son of absentee parents, a detective prodigy. he grew up in kyoto with his uncle, solving low-risk cases on the side until he accidentally figured out a major murder case and that man’s eyes looked at him like he was worth nothing, meant nothing, was nothing and that hurt a little and honestly, saihara’s happier like that. he doesn’t want to know about the person who idolised komaeda nagito and kirigiri kyouko and fantasized over that one matchmaker from season 44 and has a mint condition figure of amami, his friend, amami who he watched bleed out on the floor in front of him.

gentle, yumeno pokes saihara’s forearm, and he stares blankly into eyes the colour of drying blood. coppery, a dark rusty red. 

“hey, saihara,” she starts awkwardly, tugging at his sleeve like it’s the only thing tethering her to earth, “i think we should go home. do,” she reaches to pull at his fingers, bitten-down nails digging crescents into the palms of his hands, “you wanna stay at my place? i can take the couch.”

saihara blinks, his breathing (when did he start hyperventilating? weird) slowly easing. the empty pane of sky above is darkening, a soft ocean of stars like flowers overhead. it’s pretty - pretty enough to rival the artificial night given to them in the academy. he stares blindly at a spot just off the shoulder of orion.

“sure. i appreciate that, yumeno-san.”

-

team danganronpa has their own cemetery. not everyone’s here - seems like this wasn’t built to house 53 seasons of dead people, and it seems like it’s mostly fan favourites. the survivors vary, so he’s not sure how many people would be here, if they buried everyone. it’s big, even so, about an acre or so of land and gravestone and mountains of flowers so sweet that saihara feels like vomiting. they’re probably near the back, right? saihara doesn’t know anyone else who’s died. as far as he remembers, all his family is alive. he’s never been to a funeral, either,

and danganronpa didn’t give his friends one.

he staggers towards where the smell is freshest, away from the headstone that reads “enoshima junko”, the one beside it that bears the name of “ikusaba mukuro” and the ones after that and after that and after that.

amami’s is easy to find. he’d been popular, having survived so many times, and that, coupled with good looks and charisma that dripped from him like poison, had earned him a legacy. there’s a carpet of wilting flower petals covered in fresh ones on the path, so thick that it’s hard to see where concrete starts and grass ends. the survivor (haha! that’s ironic) doesn’t seem in need of mourning. nobody will forget amami rantarou.

blue-dyed orchids, a quiet apology. he moves on.

akamatsu. god, is it just in the order everyone died? what a joke. 

flowers for her, too, but less than amami. maybe she just wasn’t as loved. still, saihara pauses, sits, gives her a smile. was she really the person that video made her out to be? he doesn’t want to think so. he thinks amami would forgive her, too, even if she didn’t kill him in the end. he seemed like that type of person, and akamatsu was hard to hate.

pink carnations. he doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

hoshi, toujou. flowers for them but less. forget-me-nots.

(hey, something whispers in the back of his head, tracing cold fingers down his spine, don’t you love that symbolism? hanakotoba is so danganronpa, you’d make a great mastermi)

angie, chabashira, shinguuji. more flowers, he doesn’t want to look at them this time he doesn’t want to think about them no

iruma, gokuhara, a thank you a goodbye more flowers more meaningless sentiment what the fuck is he doing here?

he didn’t know these people. he knew them but he didn’t really so who are they? who are these people? he doesn’t know jack shit what the fuck he wants to go home already to his empty apartment to the glued on posters to not giving a shit to 

there’s a glass horse by ouma. love-lies-bleeding. what’s he meant to say? i love you? i’m sorry? haha i fucked this all up? he doesn’t know he wishes he could just think about something else okay.

(haha. what even was there to bury? it’s kind of funny, honestly. saihara wonders why there’s a grave anyway).

momota. asters. is he crying? he can’t tell his eyes feel weird and his mouth is dry and numb and tastes like salt and metal and hope and watching his best friend die.

shirogane. kiibo doesn’t have one. 

shirogane.

shirogane.

shirogane.

there’s a box cutter in his pocket, edge worn from trying to slice off season 50’s anniversary edition. it’s dulled at the edge.

he drops the flowers. why did he bring her any in the first place? she doesn’t deserve them. is this illegal? he’s not a real detective anyway, and it’s not like he can’t afford the fine. probably just vandalism, right?

he’s lucky her name is short.

each character, engraved into granite, slowly stabbed at, scratched. it chips a little in places.

shirogane tsmg.

shigone tsg

shign t

shi

die. different characters but this is in english anyway.

god.

he wishes she was dead. is that bad? should he feel bad? a part of him wants to but he really can’t bring himself to. it’s like when a celebrity or actor or something dies. you watch the funeral, you grieve a little, but you don’t cry you get over it. it’s not personal. he’s not invested.

he doesn’t care. 

(god. he just wants this whole fucking thing to be over. he wants a life without danganronpa.)

the cold wind sighs dispassionately.

-

harukawa squeezes his hand tightly. she’s shorter than him, but even so, she makes it work, holding him to her chest like he put the sun and stars in the sky, like a sibling to her crying brother. there’s saltwater staining the shoulder of her sundress, seeping into the dip of her collarbone. he’s not sure if she’s noticed but either way it doesn’t seem to bother her, or if it does, she’s too polite to say anything.

harukawa’s been quieter, lately. maybe it’s their escape (is it even that? it was handed to them on a silver platter) or maybe it’s just who she originally was showing through.

“no,” she murmurs, and saihara blinks, because oh, he said that out loud, “i just don’t have a lot to say.”

a shrug.

-

yumeno stands on her tiptoes to reach the top of kirigiri kyouko’s head. the cup ramen is still there. but there’s splashes of white paint all over it, and from a distance it’s almost invisible.

saihara stands back, blinking. it’s bright out, a sort of sickly-sunny weather that makes his eyes hurt.

they’re covering the traces, hiding things. it feels good, in a way, but even still,

saihara’s bedroom walls are decorated with dead people.

**Author's Note:**

> i named this work after the opening from kiznaiver but i've never watched kiznaiver


End file.
